Skip to main content

Two Hundred

Well, it's not a 200
scored by Maoists or Jehadis.
That would have just given us
an east target for anger and
a temporary thirst for blood
before we realise painfully
that dinner is yet to be earned.

It could be a Shahrukh 200
- 200 metrosexual minutes
of ghee-shakkar and glycerine
which we buy to escape
into that world of love
and niceness and gemutlichkeit
which is so not ours.

It could be a politician's 200
as he assembles a majority
to grab the CM's chair.
Chi-chi we say in disgust
at all that corruption & horsetrading
even as we plot to rig
the housing-society elections.
Papi pet ka sawal, after all.

It's so much more better
that it was Sachin's 200.
Scored ball by ball
in front of our own eyes
and then humbly acknowledged.
200 runs of honest industry
to line our stomachs with.

We're truly happy that
Sachin scored 200 runs in a match.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

She's complicated

She's complicated. She'll charm you with charts, statistics and that corporate smile. But look into those eyes, they're fiercely bohemian. She's complicated. Her chatterings seem to resonate with happy sounds, but listen with the other ear, to an unhidden lament. She's complicated. Her silences agonise, her voice echoes in her absence. And yet there is a mild dread as her name flashes on the ringing phone. She's complicated. Sometimes she's a poetess, shallow, romantic, trying to hide a sardonic, world-weary wit. She's complicated. She could be a spiteful Fury, wrath unabated, but that's just to hide the lamb-hugging girl within. She's complicated. She's an enchantress, a fool, a tyrant, a nurse, an imp, a priestess, but she's generally a good friend. She's complicated. Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

Fit

 What we are is a jigsaw pieces that come together searching for edges that match some we know will never sit: a sideways glance, a crush, a lifelong regret; some we think will last, but no we stick around a while and then we know we are meant for other things, other people, other places but mostly just being othered some of us are corner pieces who know where we are and who will come to find us eventually I can only wish I was that and some of us are that piece that doesn't fit neither color nor shape nor corner we force it sometimes, set it aside for some later unfulfillable hope until it is too late to realise we were left over from another puzzle, with only the longing to fit, to belong, to be included

Rat

I'm a rat, I'm a rat, I scurry and I bite, I eat what I get, And I fuck and I fight, I dodge the black crows, I run from your shoes, But I'm old or sick, you'll trample over me.